


Split the World Open

by Omano



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mark of Cain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 07:14:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3601047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omano/pseuds/Omano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What do you think my brother could do to me that he hasn't already?"<br/>That was their deal.</p><p>When Michael learnt that his one and true vessel took the Mark of Cain upon himself he grew furious, but also he offered Dean a way out.</p><p>Everything went all right, until that ancient element of <em>too much darkness, too much fire </em>got finally unleashed by the Mark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Split the World Open

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dsha801](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsha801/gifts).



> I seem to have reached a new low at my writing abilities, but please, enjoy!

 

“ _Even with the forces of the FBI finally arriving, there is still no lead on the unsub who…_ ”

At this point Dean pushed the cassette back into the radio. Still nothing, he thought. Actually, this was still a good thing. It gave chance for the professionals to work in peace.

After the earth-shattering relief of finally being rid of the Mark it took Dean way too long to channel back into the news, and this gave this psycho enough time to wipe off near all inmates of all prisons from Oakland to Sparks.

And it wasn’t the first sign on their “the world is going down” map.

At first it was the storms wiping off the crops in three states. Then Sam came up with a feed of alert in the Netherlands as the sea levels rose to remarkable heights. The lower plains were already under water. When the day suddenly turned into night and the moon simply refused to budge they knew something big was up. As in Apocalypse big. Again.

The first obvious suspect would have been Michael, Archangel of the Lord freshly out of the Pit. Except he was too under the weather to even leave the room he had holed himself up in at the bunker. It was a miracle to see him wandering about the library absentmindedly frowning at his marked forearm as if it wasn’t even his own. The next best guess was another big-ass demon, probably an impossibly surviving Knight of Hell. Maybe Cain had snapped and now was uprooting humanity.

Thus they wasted precious time searching for Cain in vain, and now were days behind chasing their killer along Route 9.

"Dean," Sam called. "I asked, what's the plan?"

His grip instinctively grew tighter on the steering wheel. "The usual," He said gruffly. “Stay alive."

"This is Michael we're talking about we need a plan to stay alive."

"There's no evidence it's him!"

Dean only shot a quick come-at-me-bitch glare of all glares but what he caught glance of either way was enough to take the fight out of him. Sam looked at him with pity. Sorrowful and sympathetic, but it didn't make the pity any more acceptable.

The security cameras recordings were all useless, showing no silhouette at all. They were pitch black, dark like that very moment before the first spark of creation. Like those fearsome nights before fire was brought to the world.

Still, watching those feeds filled Dean with nausea and the bone-deep ache of despair.

 

 

"What do you think my brother could do to me that he hasn't already?"

That was their deal sealed with Michael’s sincere, hard eyes and camp-fire warm hand fitting perfectly in Dean’s rough one as the wicked Mark slowly crept its horrible way to the angel’s forearm.

 

 

The worst thing was how no one recognised that something was wrong.

And that something was terribly wrong. Dean should have known.  He should have been the first to catch on the miniscule signs. The imperceptible demanding tremor in the fingers at the smallest proximity of any weapon, a knife, a gun that the angels despised so much, or even just a lighter. He should have caught on the deep silence wrapped up in layers and layers of quiet authority and words of arrogant nonchalance.  He should have heard the confused calls in the depth of the bloodthirsty pupils.

But he didn't.  They just kept on polishing weapons in companionable silence, slipping closer to each other in their bubble of denial by each day until their shoulders brushed by each elegant, swooping motion as Michael slid some alien stone along the edge of his sword. Dean was even relieved how Michael didn’t bat an eye at the sight of the First Blade. The angel watched with bemused light glowing on his features as Dean once decided to chop some firewood behind the bunker after a minor clash with Sam, and stood as a serene statue of reassurance by the hood of the Impala when the hunter cleaned her up after the Winchesters’ first case without Dean possibly hulking out looming over them.

Dean realized nothing.

Now Michael snapped, and there was a flood of dead bodies and ever-burning fires marking his way along the Loneliest Road with quite a detour to Ely, Nevada where the death row was just opened up this morning for one terrible slaughter.

 

 

When they arrived the place was already swarming with FBI agents, so there was barely any need for them to flash their forged badges, just had to make sure they didn’t bump into actual agents. Soon they split up, Sam went to check if they were lucky enough to find another survivor (the last couple of ones were on their way to joining some Apocalyptic cult worshipping Angels and devoting their lives to Jehovah or whatever) while Dean was to ask around the prison guards.

He was on his way when he felt a strange pull so strong as gravity kept his feet on the ground or the Earth around the Sun.

The church door opened silently under the push of his hand. It didn't creak, didn't squeak. It was silent like the cushioned lid of a coffin. It felt way too much like entering a tomb.

The light, already painted a reddish hue, filtered through the rose-window only illuminated the altar in a soft glow. In the front row there was a shadow darker than any shadows that crept among the beams and pillars.

Dean followed the dark steel stinking little brook that sprung and flowed ever so lazy from the body draped over the dais in front of the altar. A pair of candles was lit on either side. A few feet away from them there was a pile of ashes. The scent of incense mingled with the much nastier odour of blood. Yet, it didn’t even smell of death anymore.

In this pocket universe where the air was thick and cold, darker than the night, it felt like even his finger brushing the very tip of the angel blade tucked in the back of his belt was a deafening sound. Dean winced. Knees bent, senses straining for the lightning fast moves of the Archangel pouncing on him so that he could still try and defend himself – but nothing stirred, only his own heaving breaths thundered in his ear.

He came ready to yell, to unleash all accusations that had been boiling in his chest rendering him unable to eat or sleep or even think properly. He had watched feeds on loop of a figure they couldn’t make out then, but now, now Dean knew that he simply didn’t want to see Michael striding up to shock-still or screaming and kicking inmates and foregoing his elegant lethal way of burning his victims to ashes with a single, painfully gentle touch Dean had watched as he tore the human bodies apart. Muscles came loose from bundles, easy as a child tears their ragdolls to shreds in a tantrum. Blood was gushing in thick rivers painting the marble skin red, and the sound of bones cracking louder than any agonizing scream still rattled about in Dean’s skull.

What said it wasn’t Michael’s way of demonstrating how the race of Man was below him so?

Dean felt the strength in his steps, no weight of the sword could slow him as he marched up to the front row, the tightness in his chest couldn’t steal his breath, his mind was clear and eyes sharp on his target. He lifted his hand with the memory of old strength that killed Abaddon, and now he was ready to grab Michael and turn him around fast enough to give him whiplash, to punch him in the face for his damn prideful silence, for the Ten Plagues that  he was just about to spread in the world—

But instead his hand simply fell on the straining shoulder. There was no force, no judgement in the warm presence of his hold. It was simple _there_.

Michael’s bent head rose only a fraction as if in shock, but then it dropped back lower in defeat. A quiet sound slipped past his lips.

“When is the death of the firstborn due, huh?” Dean’s voice sounded grating, grave no matter how much he tried to make it sound light and easy.

Life slowly, drop by drop, started to flow back into Michael. Dean could finally feel the shift of muscles under his palm. He squeezed reassuringly.

“I don’t… I wouldn’t want to hurt you, Dean.” It was terrifying how awfully lost Michael sounded.

Dean had to blink away the burning in his eyes before he could open his mouth again to speak.

“I’m more worried of the others. You know, the people you were supposed to protect.”

Michael took in a painfully deep breath. Then his shoulders sagged.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he said softly.

“I know.”

Dean _knew_. He knew how it felt to say you were so damn sorry, but no matter how heartfelt it sounded to your ears it would always be too empty, never enough and how you would just want to say it again and again until your tongue swells in your mouth drowning out all intelligible sound. And he also knew how lost, resigned this little phrase sounded to the outside world: as if you were so reassured that you can do actually nothing to atone for your ocean of sins.

He _understood_. This was why he squeezed Michael’s shoulder again. This was why he didn’t pull his hand away when Michael reached up to wrap his fingers around Dean’s, and this was why, when the angel’s thumb started caressing his knuckles, squeezing his eyes shut to bar the tears from sliding down his face he bent down to drop a kiss to the dark mop of hair.

He _understood_. And he had to believe they weren’t lost.

 


End file.
